Will of the Angel
by atheshar
Summary: COMPLETED. Not all stories have a happy ending. Some, it seems, were never meant to be that way.
1. Perfect Place for Murder

_**AN:** "Open up your mind, let your phan-tasies unwind…" I knew I heard that wrong._

_Sadly, as we all have now come to expect, I own nothing of the Phantom or his story (cries silently)… that belongs to more distinguished persons on whom Fate has smiled kinder than I… I believe we are all well aware of this by now, heh._

_Even my names I admit come from various sources… and I can make no claim whatsoever to Erik. But if the story—Raian's story and Jaqueline's story—entertains you for a while, then, well, I did my best._

_So, without further ado:_

Chapter 1: Perfect Place for Murder

Raian ducked into the alley, trying to throw off pursuit in his twisted course. Acutely aware of the beating of his footsteps on stone, he tried to run softer—his shoes tapped out a steady tattoo against the wet paving stones that sounded agonizingly loud… but with little success. After a moment he decided it wasn't worth the sacrifice in speed and picked up the pace again.

The rain earlier that day left the streets wet and slippery. Rounding one corner his foot skidded out and he landed heavily on one knew, grunting with pain as he scrambled back to his feet, regretting the seconds lost in the fall. Every step jolted his bruised knee and he gritted his teeth in frustration as he inevitably slowed, breathing hard.

The moon gleamed eerily down between the clouds as his breath came in short gasps. He had lost all track of time in the chase. And a chase it was… for the first time, he regretted fighting his brother in court. Raian doubled over, coughing, and tried to keep running at the same time.

Fighting for Jaqueline's rightful portion of his Father's will ended up with him running from a band of hired thugs in the alleys of Paris. He would have laughed, had he the breath for it. Instead he turned another corner, uncomfortably aware that his choices of places to run were rapidly thinning. They were herding him on, like a sheep before a pack of wolves. But where?

His mind outraced his feet. He could imagine Gerard's instructions: "Do it somewhere out of sight, where he won't be found for a while. I don't want this linked to Father's will."

Well, there were plenty of dark, abandoned holes in Paris to dump him in. For the life of him, though, he couldn't imagine a place that would forgo investigation.

They street opened up into an abandoned courtyard and Raian duly started across, aware of the shapes of men running out of other adjoining alleys and streets. _In the middle of a courtyard? _he thought in amazement as they closed in a semicircle, pushing him towards an abandoned building that he recognized with a chill. _My God, the Opera Populaire…_

Since the recent chandelier fiasco and the elusive "Opera Ghost" the Opera Populaire had been abandoned. It had been little over a year, and there were rumors of a prospective buyer of the place with plans to renovate and reopen. For now it stood silently, a mute monolith against the night, and the perfect place to perform murder. As he shoved his way past unused doors into the Atrium, that was the thought dominating Ryan's mind.

The groan of doors and slap of footsteps on stone far above resounded against the empty corridors and angled walls throughout the Opera Populaire. It was as if a ghostly army had unceremoniously swept the abandoned place into its eternal battlefield.

Yet there was only one ghost who haunted the opera house, who had over the years exerted proof of his singular domain. Pausing, fingers hovering over the keys of the piano, his green eyes narrowed dangerously, ill pleased at the interruption.

Raian stumbled blindly into the dark interior of the opera house. Dust, and the crumbling decay of neglect, had only just begun to take hold, and he took some comfort that he left no footprints. Had he the breath, he would have laughed at himself. They were already right behind him—

Something snagged his foot and he tumbled to his knees, gasping as his injured leg hit the ground and twisted at an odd angle. Something hard slammed into his back and he sprawled forward, curling up in an attempt to ward off a sharp kick. _Raian, this is pathetic!_ He made a determined effort to stand, lunging up, vowing he'd get at least one of the scoundrels. The fist hit him face-on and everything went white for a second.

Some insane part of his subconscious demanded that he stand, and he mindlessly struggled for a moment through the buffeting, but the rain of blows didn't abate. His mind was hazy and his thoughts forced themselves slowly through, coming with less and less frequency. Even the pain began to slip away. Blurred shapes danced in front of his eyes—Gerard—he blinked but something wet was trickling into his eyes, it was what—he fumbled for the word—blood—yes, that was it—he tasted iron on his tongue—the shapes become more hazy and indistinct, racing past him violently.

Raian tumbled from consciousness into a yawning pit of blessed oblivion, his last thought one of detached curiosity. His fogged mind couldn't quite place the scream of a grown man in fear as his life was cut short.

Then falling, falling into blackness…


	2. Tally

_A/N: I own nothing of this. (stares at writing and tries not to cry) Alas, even the sentences belong to… wait. Those are mine. Not the Phantom, though…_

_As for that: he will continue to be called 'the Phantom' or 'the Opera Ghost' et al until such time as he decides to give Raian + companions a name. So get used to it ;-) Also, I apologize in advance for the violence of this chapter (here, hence the rating… to be safe) but I promise, I have a reason._

_Of further note; I have more written, but this stubborn computer will not let me upload… curse dial-up! I'll fix it as soon as I can._

_Martian Aries: thanks for reading… funny, I didn't find the second meaning of "tattoo" until recently, but it conjures up the perfect image…_

Chapter II: Tally

They used to call him the Devil's Child.

The rapier snapped out like lightning, arcing with blinding swiftness across and through. He pivoted, left foot forward as he twisted past the first, slamming his right side up, the rapier a deadly extension of his arm. A flick of the left wrist and the Punjab lasso snaked out with practiced ease; a single smooth jerk ended a third life before they were even aware of him.

Angel of Death. The five of them hesitated a moment—they knew the stories—then charged. There were five of them, they figured, and he was only one. He yanked the garroted body across and one stumbled, tripping the other two.

The rapier rose again skillfully to another, and his fist closed over the throat of a second, systematically crushing the life from him, eyes locked in pitiless embrace. The last two charged and he hurled the man at them, sword slicing through a third. He didn't bother to retrieve the blade, simply leapt at the final two. One had a knife. He twisted sideways at the last instant to avoid the slashing blade. His gloved fingers locked around the man's wrist and snapped it sideways—he screamed as his wrist was broken. A moment later his own knife tore his throat out.

Cloak whirling like liquid night, the Phantom turned to the last of them, to finish what they had begun. The ruffian had one good view of his face; stern and hard as steel, twin green eyes flaming with unbridled anger. The white half-mask gave it away.

The thug stumbled back, perhaps trying to scream, but all that came out was a gasp as the lasso latched over his neck. A gasp, then a sickening _crunch_ as his neck broke.

Without second pause the Phantom unhooked it, stowing it carefully away, and detoured long enough to yank his rapier free, wiping it clean, without a flicker of regret. He had lost whatever restraint he had when _she_ had left. What was life, after all? He would gladly have taken his own, except… he paused in sliding the blade home, glanced at the strewn corpses. Nine.

He distinctly remembered only killing eight.

Eyes narrowing, he carefully bent and turned over the ninth body. Bruised, beaten, bleeding, a broken arm and twisted ankle, but very much alive. For the first time since _she_ left, he hesitated, hand hovering over the hilt of the rapier. The man would thank him for death if he could. His fingers reached for the hilt.

"_And if he has to kill a thousand men, the Phantom of the Opera will kill, and kill again..."_

"Will you never let me be free? Sing no more and keep the grave in peace!" he hissed at her unseen shade, yet the fires in his eyes slowly faded. He lifted the unconscious, broken body in his arms, careful not to jostle it too harshly, and paused for one last searching glance about the now-silent opera house.

With careful steps he turned for the darkness of the labyrinth below. The man in his arms did not stir, and the Phantom looked down on him with a cold pitiless gaze. "Have you ears to hear and mind to understand, you would know you would best pray not to awaken," he said, knowing the words wasted.


	3. Unsafe

Raian's eyes snapped open, his hands clenched at his sides. For a moment everything—memory included—blurred, but slowly his vision and his mind came back into focus.

He was in a generally dark area, he realized, a cavern lit only by hundreds of candles. _Underground_, he decided. He pondered momentarily being dead, then quickly discarded the idea. This would be a strange afterworld indeed, one he had never heard described in any religion. Besides, a dull consistent ache all over his body convinced him he was alive. For some reason he doubted he would take _that_ with him.

Raian tried to sit up, an unwise move he discovered a moment later when pain shot acutely through his supporting arm and leg. He groaned and looked down; bandages were wrapped in various places over and under his tattered clothes, and something stiff braced his leg and left arm. The leg didn't seem to be more than aggravated. The arm was another matter. _Broken,_ he thought with a grimace, touching it tenderly with his right hand.

Immobile for the most part on the soft bed beneath him, he turned his head gingerly to look around. His last memory was running into the Opera Populaire a heartbeat ahead of half a dozen… no, eight or so… pursuers, being caught a moment later… clearly _someone_ had intervened, and judging from his surroundings had not taken him away from the theater. The candles glimmered off the lake like a myriad of eyes, revealing little from his reclined position. His eyes lit on a small table beside the bed. Propped up against an unlit candle was a folded piece of fine parchment. Frowning slightly he picked it up in his good right hand, turning it over carefully.

He hesitated momentarily, then determinedly and awkwardly unfolded it with one hand, squinting in the dimness and tilting it into the light until the dark-inked letters jumped out at him.

_Fondest Greetings, Dear Guest:_

_I hope you find the accommodations to your liking;_

_I would offer more but I'm afraid there is little_

_An abandoned Opera has to offer._

_I humbly suggest you do not attempt to leave_

_Considering the circumstances it could be…_

_Shall we say, unsafe, for your health._

_I assure you your persistent pursuers have been dealt with;_

_Do not fear them haunting you in death._

_There is only one ghost here._

Raian imagined the author laughing silently as he wrote and barely repressed a shudder, bending back to the reading.

_My apologies on my absence as you awake._

_A rather urgent matter has come to my attention;_

_Please, monsieur, make yourself at home_

_Till my return._

There was a bitterness to the double-meaning that did not escape Raian. He turned the parchment over, but that was all—save for the signature "OG".

He paused long enough to re-read the letter. _"I humbly suggest you do not attempt to leave. Considering the circumstances it could be…shall we say, unsafe, for your health."_ The wording was not lost on him. Raian carefully set the letter aside, pondering the repercussions of it. Allowance must be made for his injuries… else circumstance and legend would leap together to form one.

As it was, he thought this "OG"s meaning perfectly clear. The eight men who had chased Raian through the dark alleys of Paris were dead, and his mysterious rescuer had no compunctions on making the number of slain nine. A shiver raced up his spine as he tried to picture it—one against eight, and mightier still? He had difficulty imagining it.

Well, one thing at least was certain—he was alive on a whim, and that could quickly change. _I have to get out of here._ Had he been thinking clearly, he would have realized that this OG had threatened him with death if he tried to leave, that he was injured and not able to move quickly, and that he had no idea where exactly he was or how to escape.

Raian was, unfortunately, not thinking clearly at all. He had nearly been killed, and a second death threat was doing nothing for his nerves. A sudden urge seized him to _get out_—he levered his legs off the bed to stand, careful to put his weight on his uninjured arm and leg. After several moments he discovered he could walk—hobble, actually—if he didn't stay on his injured right leg for too long at a time.

Standing, he finally got a halfway-decent look around this place, this lair. Candles and lanterns gleamed on fabric and wood and stone. The place was dominated by a grand piano, littered with candles and notes written in a precise hand. He stared around in awe for a moment, eyes drifting about in amazement.

Forgetting himself a moment he lifted a smooth, tapered rapier with a keen edge from a table, reveling in the balance of it and the flash of candlelight on the steel blade. He was accounted fair with a sword, but the balance of it—

"Awake, I see," a mellifluous voice rang out.

Raian spun—or tried to, as his injured leg refused to comply and he barely caught himself, his right hand—still holding the rapier—steadying himself against the wall. After a moment he regained his balance enough to look up.

The man who had spoken leapt lightly out of the boat he had apparently just used to cross the lake, racking the pole against the wall. Raian's first frenzied thought was that while he was imposing enough, he did not look the part of a killer.

Raian judged him to be a measure over six feet, well-built and deft in motion, moving with a practiced grace and economy of line. He was dressed in fine black and silver that gleamed in the candlelight… and he wore it well, with familiar ease.

It was only when the man turned that Raian reconciled himself with the image of the stranger's threat. The left half of his face was perfectly formed, regal even, the image almost of a Roman god. Twin green eyes flamed, perfect symphonies of madness and sorrow. Here was the line between genius and insanity.

Yet Raian noted all of that later; when the man turned, his eyes riveted to the mask; the stark white in abrupt contrast to the darkness, so that it seemed to take on an essence of its own light. "Opera Ghost," he breathed in realization.

The Phantom swept out his cloak wide in a mocking bow. "Honored, monsieur. Tell me, was it the mask, or the aura of death that gave it away?" he asked bitterly. "I hope you find the accommodations suitable," he continued, pacing forward, holding out an arm in mock display. "Not too dark, is it? Not too grave-like for your nature?"

Raian swallowed hard, lifting the point of the rapier. The Phantom continued to casually advance against the stone floor, boots ringing on the stone deliberately. "Come no closer," Raian forced out, and the Phantom's laugh rang out along the cavern ceiling: harsh, cold, inhuman.

"What, monsieur, am I so unwelcome in my own home?" His taunting gesture took in the candle-garrisoned lake, the piano, the cavern—the deserted opera itself. "How ungrateful of you. Or are you looking to join your eight friends? Don't mind if they turn you a cold shoulder—I doubt they can help it." The two green eyes faded from sadness and burned into hate.

Raian took comfort in the solidly tangible length of steel in his hand. He was armed, and the other was not, he kept reassuring himself. He was armed, he was armed…

The Phantom at last paused mere feet away, just out of reach of Raian's blade. "I marvel at the gall of the living," he said with a hard laugh as he stopped, looking steadily into Raiain's eyes with the darkling stare that had pushed back so many before. "No matter how you play, I have to win," he said simply; a flick of motion and the Punjab Lasso snagged Raian with practiced ease. "Shall we call a draw, then? Come, come now monsieur, surely you are not thinking of leaving?" he asked, far too pleasantly, fingers closing with dread familiarity over his end of the lasso.

The rapier point dropped away and Raian tossed the blade; the Phantom caught the hilt expertly in midair, sliding the blade home with practiced ease. He flicked the noose up and free, coiling it easily and casually over one hand. He paused long enough to loop it over the hilt of the rapier and set the deadly pair back on the table.

Watching the silent certainty of the Phantom's movements, his explicit grave echoed in every motion, Raian wondered at him. As if sensing the gaze the Phantom turned, fixing him with that intense green stare—but there was something missing from it, a quality of anger, that Raian found surprising. "Standing must be tiring for you," the Phantom said smoothly, extending his arm. "Perhaps I can see you to a more comfortable seat." Hesitantly Raian took the offered support, finding it unerringly steady, and found walking incomparably easier when his weight wasn't all on his injured ankle.

He sank gratefully into a sitting position on the cot, at last realizing the foolishness of his "flight". The man—the Phantom, he acknowledged warily in his mind—crossed to a sideboard, his back to him. Curiosity at the sudden change of character ate into him, and at length he ventured to break the silence. "Why did you save me?"

"I did not."

"Not from my bro—Gerard's—hirlings, but from yourself." He wished he could have snatched the words back as soon as he spoke them.

The Phantom pivoted to look at him, stare lancing across the distance between them. "A word and a whim, nothing more."

"Curiosity?" Raian ventured.

"You could say that." The Phantom turned quickly away again, but Raian could have sworn he saw the ghost of pain in those eyes.

"But not accurately," he was about to say when the Phantom spoke in that silvered voice of his—"One the note of curiosity, do you go by a name besides guest?" He returned, varying a tray that wafted a delicious smell in Raian's direction. Suddenly he realized how hungry he was.

"Raian," he said automatically. _And you?_ But he was not so foolish as to speak the words aloud.

"One name only?" The Phantom pressed, placing the tray at his side.

"For now. I will not carry my brother's name."


	4. Mirror Shards

The Phantom could taste it, all around him—as tremulous and tender as once he called it, an unspoken whisper, were such a thing possible beyond a world of dreams. _Yes, and there I admit it at last. "Dreamworld"._

He looked instinctively at the solid, dark presence of the piano, enthroned within its surrounding candles, a shrine to some forgotten musical God who had once sang so sweetly to him, but now offered only silence. Forgotten. He had not touched it since _she_ left. A few musical notations were scattered about—a sheaf reclining against the stand, here a loose page curling drowsily as if in sleep, there a stack haphazardly leaning, tribute to disorganized delirium. Pittances, really, none enough to be called "music."

His music—the music of the night—had died with _her_. Not that _she_ was dead, in all likelihood… dead only to him. His hands clenched futilely until the leather of the gloves creaked. His was the music of silence, now, broken whispers and fragmented dreams—a shattered mirror, each sliver echoing a sharp reflection of a distorted life, each image a knife cutting with deadly and keen edge.

He had tried, but chords no longer came to him with their former exalting triumph, their tender glory. It was as if the music had truly died away, an old decrepit thing no longer turning to him.

He paced restlessly, this imposing fragment of night, the candles gleaming about him like deathwishes. He hardly gave the mocking lights a second glance. Once, months ago, he had thought to end it all that way. His mouth twisted in a bitter smile at the thought.

"Not even a Phantom slays an Angel," he said, and was surprised when the echoes of his own mellifluous voice ran back at him, softly persuading. His voice, the one instrument of beauty… he laughed harshly, and an intense painful satisfaction wrenched through him at the sound.

He paused to regard his reflection in a mirror; green eyes stared out mockingly from a face half-godlike, half-demonic. The irony of the mask did not escape him. _Light over darkness._ "How empty, senseless, dusty, seem all the prospects of this world." How had the lines gone? _Oh, that the Almighty had not set his cannon against self-slaughter!_ Aye, they were something close to that.

"What Almighty?" he spat aloud, and the darkness answered; the darkness of the lair, of his hating eyes, of the world. _"Too long you've wandered in winter, far from my far-reaching gaze…_

He slammed his gloved fist against the mirror in anger; the shock of contact ran up his arm. The glass hummed high and sharp, a shrill cry. On his bed, the man—Raian—shifted in his slumber.

Thoughts of darkness faded as the Phantom turned to look at him. The young refugee, the prey, the untrusting invalid. He almost laughed at his own description—would have, if he could not so easily reconcile the young man with himself. "Why are you alive, boy?" he asked, and answered, "Christine." But the word felt wrong as he said it. That, more than all else, gave him pause. His incapacitated guest had actually made him think—nay, _speak_—her name. Yet it tripped wrongly from him.

_Who are you?_

It was an odd thought, a twisted mirror—"Who am I" the question had always been. The Phantom turned to look in the mirror again, hesitant fingers reaching out to himself, meeting only the cold hard glass, pitiless and silent, untouchable.

Encased within a dream.

Hate flared in the green eyes before him, a bitter anger, a self-loathing that brooked no rival. His gloved fingers trailed across the mirror's surface, touching the image of the mask, white and immobile. Abruptly he laughed again, cold and rough as untempered steel. His cloak flared about him and he paced away.

Behind him, the mirror reflected back only empty darkness.


	5. Master of the Opera House

_A/N: No, I don't own it. That must be the most-predicted line on this site._

_Furthermore: my home computer will not allow me to do updates, so I can only load up chapters Monday / Wednesday. Expect to get about 4 a day on those two, until my muse deserts me altogether…_

Chapter V: Master of the Opera House

"Are you certain that this is a good idea?" Anton asked uneasily.

"More certain every moment, Anton," his tall, broad-shouldered partner said with a laugh, striding across the deserted floor of the Atrium as if he already owned the place. His keen businessman's eyes placed price tags on the renovations, and lit up with pleased interest as he imagined how the revenue would far outpace the cost. "The Opera Populaire is a wonder—a gold mine waiting for the right man to tap into her," he boldly declared.

"But the fire damage, Gerard—" Antom began uneasily. His powerful friend waved it off easily.

"A pittance, Anton my friend," Gerard laughed, turning slowly in place to take in the whole of the grand entrance to the opera house. His father's recent death had left him, the eldest of the three in the family, with a great deal of wealth indeed. More if his meddling younger brother had not battled in court for Jaqueline's portion… well, Raian had paid for that. Gerard scowled.

"Not to your liking?" Anton suggested hopefully at the frown on Gerard's face. The short sticklike businessman hopped about like an overgrown bird, blinking owlishly, his hair sticking up behind his hears like feathers.

"Not in the least," Gerard said, assuming a pleased smile. After all, but his time his brother would be dead. "Anton, if you would care to assure Messieurs Firmin and Andre that we have a deal… I'm sure they will be _most_ anxious to close. And inform the contractors work will begin tomorrow…"

Raian woke to find himself alone again. Cautiously he pulled himself upright, noticing that his cuts were healing over and the bruises beginning to fade, and that even his leg pained him less. His arm, of course, was another matter. Thankfully the break had been clean, and would mend over time. For now, though, it was practically useless. He refused point-blank to wear a sling. It made him feel… invalid.

The Phantom was nowhere to be seen, of course. Over the past few days Raian had just begun to become… accustomed… to his "host". The man, the Opera Ghost, had made it quite clear that Raian was not free to leave—though how he could navigate out of the labyrinthine passages was beyond him at any rate.

He sighed and stood, pushing his dark hair out of his eyes, pausing a moment in astonishment as he caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror. Frank gray eyes in a narrow face—his mother's face—blinked back at him. He was surprised at how haunted his features were. And those eyes—the sadness in them surprised him. He ran a hand over the frayed gray of his jacket regretfully. It had been a trying month since Father's death…

The darkness in his eyes deepened and he quickly shoved those memories away into an undisclosed recess in his mind. _Done is done,_ he told himself harshly, not believing a word of it.

In an attempt to take his mind off his past he looked up at the one solid presence about him—the square comfort of the grand piano. The Phantom had not himself gone near it since Raian came, and he had been too wary of the repercussions to touch it. But somehow he found himself wending his way through the candle-patterned darkness, trailing his fingers over the ebony and ivory of the keys.

Greatly daring, he touched a soft chord, and a brilliant thrill ran through him at the sweet sound, perfectly tuned—a chorus of angels, almost. His unresisting fingers traced a scale in tones Heaven itself would weep to envy. Unbidden a memory came to his mind… he, playing soft melody, Jaqueline's innocent crystal voice winding its way with the music…

Raian bowed his head, blinking back tears that threatened his gray eyes, fingers hovering above the keys in silent salute.


	6. Jaqueline

_A/N: apologies that this is so short… but I felt it had to end here. Not as if you can't go on and read the next chapter anyhow -)_

_I own this not. Again._

Chapter VI: Jaqueline

He watched the contractors enter the Opera with a darkling green stare. Apparently this manager—Gerard, the Phantom had heard him called—did indeed intent to refurbish and reopen the Opera Populaire. As a few days passed without incident, the carpenters began to loosen up, more and more certain that the legendary "Opera Ghost" was dead, or had left—if, indeed, he had ever been more than fable.

For his own part the Phantom was content to watch the construction and weigh his interference. In time he would need to make clear to his Monsieur Gerard what he expected in his opera house, but there was no need for any hurry. He smiled coldly behind his mask, pacing his way through the maze of passages that wound through the walls and empty rooms of the place. Ah, but it would be strange indeed to have those rooms filled again…

"Make yourself at home, dear sister." A contemptuous voice interrupted his thoughts and he paused at the conjoining of two passages, turning aside to listen more carefully. Only as he reached its end did he realize, with a sudden flash of anger, where he stood. The Phantom looked down through the mirror into Christine's re-occupied dressing room.

He recognized the tall manager immediately, though not the delicate girl with him. Still, there was something familiar about her candid gray eyes…

"I hope you find the accommodations to your liking," the manager was sneering with obvious sarcasm, an unknowing copy to the Phantom. "Father always did _love_ your sweet voice, Jaqueline. Wouldn't he be proud to have you the new _prima donna_?"

Her chin lifted defiantly. "I won't sing."

His slap cracked across the room and left her cheek stinging. "You'll do as I say, little witch," he spat at her. "Your precious Father isn't here to protect you now." Her hand rose tentatively to the red mark on her face. Behind the mirror, the Phantom watched dispassionately. "You will sing, if I have to strange it out of you!" the manager growled, glaring at her a moment then stalking out, the door rattling as it slammed behind him.

The girl—Jaqueline—stared ahead silently for a moment, then slowly lowered her face into her hands. After a moment her soft sobs reached the Phantom. "Raian," she gasped quietly, "first Father, now you…" The Phantom watched for a moment, then unceremoniously turned away.


	7. Eine Kleine Nacht

_A/N: bear with me a while yet in "the Phantom". I promise, Erik will emerge finally. And if you are wondering; this might end up a touch of E / OC, but not especially. And do not look for the Chagnys to appear—personally R/C was perfect for me, and that way it will remain._

_I own this not._

_Cheers!_

Chapter Seven: Eine Kleine Nacht

The Phantom was poling the boat across the vast, glassy surface of the lake when he first heard it—the soft, unmistakable sound of his piano. He paused a moment, gliding forward silently, to listen.

He had forgotten the sound of it. The fact of it struck him as surprising as the delicately played notes leaned close, murmuring, twining familiar fingers round his soul, enticing. He listened critically for a moment, turning the pole idly in his hands. The upper register was played well by deft yet hesitant fingers, skilled hands to unsure notes. The supporting chords were bare and sketchy by comparison, so that the music lacked the proper body, but nonetheless he smiled, pleased.

He had not known Raian was familiar with the instrument. Yet he had to be, to wring even the chords he did with his left arm broken so. Slowly the Phantom resumed poling across the lake until his lair swung into view; the young man was bent over the keys, right hand cautiously tapping out the melody while his left labored to keep pace and tune. It was a pleasant, tender melody, the Phantom thought as he slowly pieced together what it would sound like, played to speed and with the proper underlying chords…

Abruptly he realized why it was so hauntingly familiar.

"How _dare_ you!" Raian straightened abruptly in fear—he had thought himself still alone. Instead he turned to find an apparition of nightmare charging towards him.

Paper and music went flying as with a single sweep of his arm the Phantom scattered the notated scores in all directions. He seized Raian's collar in one fist and hauled him to his feet with inhuman strength. _"How dare you play that!"_ he roared, and Raian's breath caught. He had never seen such unbounded rage as glared in his captor's green eyes. All the fires of Hell broke free, and the god Mar's war paled before this twisted fury. With a wordless snarl of rage the Phantom shoved him back, fiery anger in every line of his face.

"_Never_ play it!" he yelled, and in a sudden powerful motion the piano bench went tumbling away, knocking candles askew. Raian's eyes were unequivocally locked on this man, this demon-thing, before him. The Phantom roared in anger, crashing both hands down on the piano in an unharmonious discord to the pure furious power in his voice.

_Silver over thunder,_ Raian thought numbly. _Wind and lightning._

The Phantom stood for a moment, shoulders heaving, fists pressed against the keys as the jarring notes began to fade away. His penetrating eyes were closed and he slumped forward slightly to take a long, slow breath. Abruptly he spun, hands coming up as if in petition to a pitiless, judgmental God, his face itself a twisted mask of despairing, anguished hate. Raian could see all the way through his clear green eyes down into the hellish depths of his tortured soul.

"Christine—_why? WHY!" _he screamed at the night, hands clenching into fists. **_"WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME!"_** Hell itself would weep at the anguish in that powerful, powerless voice, had it any pity. But it did not.

The echoes of the Phantom's wrenching cry faded away and he fell forward to his knees, masked face hidden in his hands. _"Christine… why… why…"_ his whisper faded away into shuddering, unbroken silence.


	8. Prelude

_A/N: If you have read this far… why, thank you. It is a sure compliment. I hope I'm managing to keep the Phantom in character and trying to get the plot somewhere… kind of amusing, really, that this is where it begins, per say. I hope you enjoy it._

_And, apologies for the ending… until next Monday, if you can survive that long. I hope so…_

_As always, I own this not._

Chapter VIII: Prelude

After a long moment, the Phantom lifted his head, half-turning it towards the frozen Raian without meeting his gaze. "My apologies, Monsieur," he said at length, looking away. "It is only… I had written that music for her… I did not expect it to be played…" he drew a long, shuddering breath, pushing himself to his feet.

"I… I understand," Raian managed to say, attempting to control the slight tremor in his voice.

The Phantom barked a short, bitter laugh. "Had I not heard what I did but a moment ago, I would name you liar, Raian." He paused, glancing coldly at his guest. A chill ran through Raian at the sudden change from fire to ice. "As it is," the Phantom continued, picking up the pole he had thrown violently away in his anger, "I could actually believe you. Fancy that." Pause. "Your sister is here."

Raian's face broke into a wide grin. "Jaqueline! At the Opera! Good sir, that is simply—" his jubilation faltered.

"Your brother is here as well." The Phantom leaned the pole against the wall and glanced over. "As manager."

Raian could only stare at him in horrified silence. The Phantom turned away, saying nothing, busying himself with whatever small tasks he had to accomplish about his underground lair he called "home".

Raian stood frozen for a long while, the only sound his harsh breathing in his ears. "How did he find her?" he asked the air, not realizing he had spoken aloud, forgetting even the silent presence of the Opera Ghost. He took a step forward, then another, and found himself pacing the edge of the lake, running one hand through his short dark hair. "Jaqueline—oh God, I would never have left you, but he was looking for me… all those weeks of running, now hiding out in this place, knowing he thinks me dead, never once wondering about you. How could I? I promised to look out for you—promised Father—so I fought for you. How did this happen?" The words barely came out, a numb whisper. Raian closed his eyes and took a long, slow breath, as if the oxygen would fuel the smoldering coals within, and with a ferocity that amazed him they leapt into flames. "God, how could you let this happen to her!" he raged suddenly, storming angrily along the route he had silently paced before, eyes snapping flames. He yelled wordlessly, taking savage pleasure in the way the discordant echoes yapped back at him.

"She was innocent of it. You should have spared her!" he shouted, suddenly, mindlessly charging—the grand piano—the music—_Jaqueline_—with blind hate. An instant from reaching it an astonishingly cold hand wrapped black-gloved fingers around his wrist.

Snarling in anger he spun, wrenching his arm to break the grip, but the fingers shifted with him, relentless. A second hand seized his good right shoulder and spun him deftly, twisting his arm behind his back until his shoulder knotted up with pain. A well-placed kick knocked him to his knees jarringly; the grip on his upper arm tightened and the other hand moved firmly to his shoulder. The air suddenly became close as the Phantom leaned over him.

"A wrecked home once in a day is enough," a slightly amused voice said by his right ear. "You have no idea how… difficult… it was to repair the place after the mob tore through here. Please exercise caution." Nonetheless he kept a firm grip on both arm and shoulder until he felt the young man relax under him, then slowly moved away.

Raian grimaced, trying to work the knots out of his shoulder. "How do you do that?"

The Phantom's smile was both bitter and ironic. "Fate has seen fit to give me plenty of opportunities to practice," he said dryly, offering Raian a hand to pull him to his feet. Those peculiar green eyes were cool again, appraising him silently. Raian glanced away, trying to swallow the lump in his throat that threatened to choke him more surely than the Punjab Lasso.

"A skill I wouldn't mind having," he managed to say.

"So I see." The other man studied him carefully. "Though I doubt you would willingly accept the life that comes with it—if you can call this tortured existence 'life'." Raian snorted a laugh, or choked it rather. The Phantom stepped up to him, one gloved hand tilting the other's face until their eyes met; candlelight gleamed off the single tear. The Phantom was surprised to find in that grey gaze a measure of his own hapless insanity. "Or would you?" he asked quietly. A deadly quiet.

Raian slowly stepped back. "I might," he rasped, then cleared his throat uneasily. The Phantom's unwavering gaze silently urged him on. At length Raian rather abruptly nodded. "It began twelve years ago…"


	9. Unveiling

_A/N: To quote the infamous words of Theoden: so it begins._

_Glad you're still reading._

_I have to apologize that this was not up Monday (or is it Tues before it shows?). Anyway, as I've said, my home computer doesn't let me update chapters, so I do it from the University of Hartford library… I have class M/W so that's when I'm there. Only a great annoying snowstorm came in… well, here you go, seven chapters at once. _

IX: UNVEILING

"We are all lone souls. It pays to know humility, lest the delusion of control, of mastery, overwhelms. And indeed, we seem a species prone to that delusion, again and ever again…" –The Fiddler (Erikson)

He had been nine when his mother died—old enough to remember her, young enough to forget. He had always thought of himself as the lucky one. Jaqueline had been only four—too young to recall more than the characteristic gray eyes and enchanting voice. Gerard however had been fourteen.

He remembered her all too well—remembered the cough that had ended with her bedridden, remembered how Father had refused to call a doctor until it was too late, how she had wasted away to nothing before his very eyes.

Gerard was… changed, from that day on. Raian knew she had loved Gerard dearly—the eldest, the businessman in the family. Her death had shattered him, much like Father's death had broken Jaqueline eleven years later. Fragmented. That was Raian's family.

He had been torn between the two of them—sheltering his younger sister from Gerard's growing rages. His father had watched, helpless, seeing his eldest become more and more a slave to his anger—and as he grew older, anger turned to greed. Jaqueline herself withdrew almost completely from the world, a vain attempt to stop being hurt, to desensitize herself—until only Father or Raian could bring her out again.

When Father died, half of that world vanished. Immediately Gerard—now extraordinarily wealthy and commanding vast influence on the gentry of Paris—moved to seize the family assets with only a token of grief. It had taken six months of legal proceedings for Raian to secure a small fraction and pass it on to Jaqueline, who fled into hiding.

Six months of trials, and five weeks of running through the streets of Paris, one desperate step ahead of his brother's hirlings.

He had tried to keep in contact with Jaqueline as much as he could, to let her know he was still free—still alive. Only three days before his last flight he had sent her a letter. Now he feared that the reassuring note was the precise means by which Gerard had found her.

Then the midnight flight through the streets of Paris, hemmed in from all sides, all paths taken from him, but one.

"Then I discovered that the Opera Ghost was very much alive," Raian said softly, concluding his tale. He dared to look up from his hands clasped on his lap to where his dark listener sat, a fragmented echo of night on his throne-like chair, white mask gleaming eerily in the half-light. The Phantom had said nothing during the long tale, but at last he stirred, supporting hand falling away from his jaw as he looked steadily at Raian, the visible half of his face perfectly expressionless.

The motionless pause held for a long while, until abruptly the Phantom surged upright, crossing the floor in a swift graceful motion that took Raian's breath away. He snagged something off a shelf and turned, tossing it lightly to Raian, who reflexively snatched it from the air.

It was a scroll of some sort. He glanced at the Phantom curiously, but when the other did not move unrolled an inch of the parchment. It read:

L'OPERA POPULAIRE

Another inch showed fine hatching and angled lines, neatly annotated. He stared at them a long moment before it hit him. "Plans—the original drawings… how…?"

"They are mine. This place is, after all, a feat of _personal_ engineering." The Phantom allowed himself a slight smile at the look of awe on Raian's face. "The first time I suppose I will have to lead you myself—but if you wish to see your sister but if you wish to see your sister more often, you will quickly learn the way." He picked up the pole he had so recently discarded and paused on the way to the lake's shore. "I will, of course, need to inform Mme Giry beforehand… and make my presence known to Gerard as well." He fixed Raian with an icy stare. "Know this, boy. The Opera Populaire is my domain no one else's. You are here only on my appreciation—treat this as such. And one more thing…" he stepped into the boat, levering the pole against the unseen bottom. "She is not to know of me." He would not risk Christine again.


	10. Reunions

_A/N: note the new quote feature… I found some that were too good to pass up. You'll get used to them._

X: REUNIONS

"The deepest need of man is the need to overcome his separateness, to leave the prison of his aloneness." –Erich Fromm (funny the name)

Gerard leaned back in his chair in his office and tapped his fingertips together in silent thought. The renovation of the Opera Populaire had gone well. Anton was of the opinion that it was even more glorious now than it had been before, and indeed the place shone with art and beauty. Gerard was pleased to discover that many of the old performers had returned, including Mme Giry, whose aid—he was rapidly discovering—would be invaluable. In fact, rehearsal was going exceptionally well, with the exception of his sister, who still stubbornly refused to sing.

He frowned, tapping his fingers harder. He knew from childhood that she had the voice to fit the lead if she chose to sing… provided she trained again. If he had to, he vowed silently, he would _force_ her to sing. As new manager he had every intention of opening well.

His frown deepened as his gaze lit on the envelope mockingly residing in the center of his desk. The red wax seal was broken—he had already read the annoying note.

Annoying, yes. The handwriting was surprisingly childish, no doubt an attempt to disguise the _true_ penmanship of the author. He grimaced, recalling its demanding tone with barely veiled threats. He had been sorely tempted to burn the offending parchment, or at least dispose of it, but the horrified and silent demeanor of the cast and crew had lent suspicious weight to the note's demands.

One finger lazily flicked it open—the simple initials "OG" had sent the ballet rats into a chorus of fevered whispers and drained the blood from the stage hands' faces. It had not taken him long to discover the meaning of the initials as well as the hundred-and-one horror stories surrounding this "Phantom of the Opera". Gerard shorted a laugh. They were even claiming that this 'opera ghost' had been responsible for the faulty chandelier and the original fire!

It seemed that now someone was trying to make good on the old faerie-tales. 20,000 francs a month? Ridiculous! Yet, Gerard had to agree reluctantly, until he had time to unmask the whole affair he would comply. A smile quirked the corners of his mouth. Unmask. _How appropriate._

That charade was not his most pressing affair, however. Somehow he had to conceive of a way to get Jaqueline to sing. For the first time he experienced a fleeting regret that he had murdered his brother. Raian had had a way with Jaqueline that could have proved useful indeed.

Tears fell unnoticed from her eyes.

Her mind numbly blinked back. Her father's funeral was the last time she had let herself cry. With one merciless jerk he had been torn from her life relentlessly. To feel them, warm and wet, trickling down her face… she bit back a sob. She only cried because she was certain she was alone.

"I tried so hard to be strong," she whispered aloud. "For your sake, Father, all those months. But now, Raian—how can I go on, trapped in this place, this _cage_, with a monster…?"

The words seized the Phantom like cold ice. The face so much like Christine—the innocent voice—calling for her father—"go to her," he hissed at Raian, and turned abruptly away. "Half an hour."

The young man nodded wordlessly, already passing through the hidden door from the Phantom's world to the Opera proper. The wall closed behind him seamlessly, and he found himself alone…

The knock on the door started Jaqueline upright. _Gerard!_ Her eyes flew to the latch as it turned, helpless as the deer that watches the wolf stalk forward. The wood paneling swung inward, and a cautious face peered in.

"Jaqueline!" suddenly she was enveloped in a crushing hug; she blinked back tears, exulting in the strong arms that enveloped her. "My God—I thought the worst, Jaq. I'm so sorry, I led them right to you…"

"Raian." She said the world over and over, deliriously happy. "Raian, Raian… you're alive. City of Angels, he said you were dead—he killed you—"

"Tried to, little sister." Reluctantly he untangled from the embrace, pushing long dark curls out of her eyes. "Almost did, too… there were eight of them."

Concern flashed in her eyes. "How did you escape?"

For half an instant Raian's mind froze. _She is not to know of me._ "I forced my way in here—it was boarded up, but I made it. I suppose they didn't dare follow—I never say them again." At least that was not a lie. "I've been hiding out here for about a week. It isn't hard—this place has more hidden corners than a maze of mirrors in Persia! I've been trying to keep low." His voice dropped. "Jaq, you have to sing."

Her head jerked up. "So you know about that too," she said softly. "Raian, I haven't sung since Father…" she choked, took a breath to steady herself. "I can't do this… don't make me do this, Raian," she said, and there was a dead quality to her voice that chilled Raian.

"Jaqueline, please," he said, pushing a comforting hand on her shoulder. She looked up at the compassion in his voice. "It's hard, I know—maybe I don't know what it's like. God help us, what else can we do? Gerard has answers and we're left scrabbling…" he sat down in an empty chair with a sight, running his good hand through his hair.

"Raian—your arm!"

"It's nothing," he said shortly. "It'll heal."

"_Nothing?_ It's broken—"

"I'm all right," he said quickly, trying to steer the conversation away. "Five weeks of running. It was close some of those times, Jaq."

"Raian, I'm so sorry…"

He shook his head. "Shh, it's all right, it's all right… we'll think of something. You have to sing until we can…"

"Can what?" she said in desperation.

"I don't know! Escape, win free, something!"

"We can't escape from him. We never will."

Raian gritted his teeth, barely stopping himself from seizing her shoulders and shaking her. "We will! Somehow! Please, Jaq, trust me on this much of it." His voice suddenly grew soft. "Remember I'll be here. I can try to help you sing again…" silently she nodded. Slowly he stood. "I have to go before someone comes," he said.

"Raian, I'm glad you're not…" she choked on the word, took a deep breath, and said, "when?"

"Tomorrow night." The door closed softly behind him. Raian glanced both ways down the empty corridor, thankful no one was in sight. There was the faintest of clicks and a section of the wall noiselessly slid back; all that Raian could see in the shadows was the Phantom's half mask.

_How much did you hear?_ he wondered silently, wasting no time in ducking into the yawning shelter.


	11. Who Is This Man

_A/N: I realize now I never liked E/C because part of the glory of Erik in my mind is his aloneness; without the dark and tortured existence, he loses half of himself. I always hated… well, too strong a word: disliked Erik's unmasking scenes here at ffn because no one was ever terrorized by his face. I know I would be…_

XI: WHO IS THIS MAN

"Genius not only hears more sounds in the rushing tumult of life, but selects more harmonious strains from the din." –Radoslav Tsanoff

"It was a vision of something so clear, so true, it could only be a madness." –Amor Trask (Gemmel)

"A brilliant night indeed," said brightly, leaning to peer down at the sea of people below, speaking over the quiet sussurando—the murmur of hundreds of expectant voices. And indeed it was. The Opera Populaire was re-opening with the production of _Il Muto_ with Jaqueline playing the part of the Countess. Rumors of her voice had been flying about Paris. Some said she was reputedly even greater than the legendary Christine. It was all rumor, of course. None outside the opera house had actually heard her sing.

Gerard cocked his fist and leaned his chin against it in thought. One day jaqueline was vehemently refusing to sing. The next one she resignedly acquiesced. The change was unsettling. She was notoriously stubborn, and had offered no reason for the sudden change. It bore thinking on, he mused as the murmurs ceased and the opera began.

At the final curtain call he was on his feet with everyone else, applauding in amazement. He had known Jaqueline was _good_, but still… the theater filled with roars of acclaim, and he saw her smile demurely with barely hidden happiness. Unconsciously the rhythm of his clapping slowed, and he leaned forward, putting his weight on the rail. Was it just his imagination, or did she furtively glance up at the shadowed recess of Box 5…?

His hands stopped and reached down to grip the rail. He could have sworn he saw motion. After a moment he narrowed his eyes, absolutely certain he saw the dark outline of a man in the "unoccupied" Box. His demanding gray gaze swept down to where Jaqueline curtsied with a wide smile, accepting the adoration of the audience.

Abruptly, it all clicked. Only two things could induce Jaqueline to sing. Father was clearly and absolutely dead. He had assumed Raian was as well, but obviously that bore further investigation. None of the eight men he had sent had ever reported success back to him. In fact he had head of nothing from them all. There had been no news of the discovery of the body which was how Gerard had wanted it, and yet…

Now the pieces of the puzzle fit neatly into place. Raian had escaped to the dark confines of the Opera Populaire. There was no Opera Ghost. His clever younger brother had merely taken up the fable for his own use. Raian was very much alive… no doubt laughing to himself as he outwitted his elder brother, managing even to secure a salary from him…

Raian was not laughing. Nevertheless he smiled, swallowing past tears that threatened to well up. His little sister, who used to lean against him as he played the piano, lifting her sweet voice in childish song. Now she stood with a beatific smile, gracefully accepting praise, a true _primma donna_. His little Jaq!

As the applause finally faded he pushed open the door from Box 5 that led directly to the Phantom's labyrinth. He could hardly contain his grin as he quickly walked the paths towards Jaqeuline's dressing room—a room that had once belonged to Christine.

"Raian!" she exclaimed when he was there waiting for her when she entered. He rose with a smile, holding her tight in a brotherly embrace. She leaned against him contentedly for a moment.

"You were wonderful tonight," he said, stepping back with his hands on her shoulders. She broke into a smile, and he grinned down on her. "So beautiful. Father would have been proud."

She nodded sadly, moving away, toying with her hair in the mirror. "You'd better go, before _he_ comes in," she said brokenly, and Raian could only nod after a moment.

"I'll be back tomorrow," he promised as he paused by the door, then slipped across the hallway to the secondary entrance to the Phantom's dark haunts. He walked quickly, wanting to put a lot of distance between him and Jaq before Gerard arrived. Soon all sounds of celebration faded away as he progressed deeper into the cellars. Over the past weeks of rehearsal he had slowly become more an more accustomed to finding his way in the hidden maze—at least, to those few that he frequented. He paused at the edge of the lake to untie the infamous boat and pole it across the lake. Haunting music drifted over to him, echoing eerily.

He was halfway across the dark glassy surface when he realized there was only one source for that music. Of course, the Phantom was infamous for his voice, and yet Raian had yet to hear him sing, or do more than touch the keys of the grand piano in passing. Christine anted him too closely, or at least Raian suspected it was so. He valued his life too much to ask.

Yet now, as he swung around the final bend to the 'bay' that brought the lair into sight, the organ music assailed him full-force. Then for the first time he heard the Phantom sing. Immediately he understood Christine's title "Angel of Music". It was hauntingly sweet, almost sensuous, but full of its own dark madness—an undertow raging violently just beneath the calm and placid surface. It was a sweet melody indeed, yearning and passionate, ruled by the raging anger beneath. Raian stared at the dark figure leaning forward, fingers dancing over the keys with delicate precision that swept his soul into a strange new world…

It was only as the boat nudged the shoreline and the Phantom's haunting music ceased in a single triumphant chord that Raian remembered some of the words… "you alone can make my song take flight…" Inexplicable uneasiness stirred in him as he chained the boat to the ring on the wall and leaned the pole in its resting place. It felt peculiarly silent after the beautiful storm of the music.

"Raian." The young man looked up at his name. "I would meet our sister." He froze as the Phantom turned to him, lancing with his fierce green eyes. "Tomorrow."

Raian said nothing. The Phantom turned back to the piano, taking silence for acquiescence. _Isn't it? Tomorrow._


	12. With Every Breath

_A/N: a touch of romance. Sort of…_

_Oh! And I'm glad you like my song-inclusions. Phrases that we recognize, like the lake one, call to mind the song without my actually writing it out. The music is marvelous and invokes a variety of emotions automatically, but the song itself has no place and quickly becomes redundant. I find such 'sly' phrases help catch an echo of the feeling of the music…_

XII: WITH EVERY BREATH

"Man can will nothing unless he has first understood that he must count on no one but himself; that he is alone, abandoned on earth…" –Jean Paul Sartre

The second night, to Anton's genuine delight, Gerard's silent pleasure, and the Phantom's unseen approval, the production went just as well as the first. News of the fantastic new singer, the _prima donna_ Jaqueline, spread like wildfire through the Parisian gentry. Anton, the pragmatic one in the managing partnership, was practically ecstatic. Gerard, though pleased, was far more reserved. The thought of his brother roaming the Opera Populaire with a free hand gnawed him, and he made silent vows to see his younger brother properly "done away with".

For his own part, Raian was far too nervous to think that Gerard might know of him. The thought of the imminent meeting between his sister and the Phantom wholly consumed his thoughts. He was frightened, he admitted to himself. And rightly so, was it not? No matter how distantly courteous the Opera Ghost had been recently, Raian could not forget how eight men had died the night of his 'escape' at the man's hand.

He knew, as well, the stories of the previous _prima donna_—Christine Daaé. Part of him screamed in terror at the thought of the Phantom anywhere near his sister. At least he would be there to… to what? Eight against one, and mightier still!

It was with that fear pounding in his throat that he waited for his sister in the infamous dressing room, staring blankly at the mirror he had entered through. Long silent moments passed before the door creaked open and Jaqueline cautiously poked her head in.

"You _are_ here!" she exclaimed, quickly closing the door behind her and locking it. "We should have almost an hour tonight. I saw the de Jeans cornering Anton and Gerard, and they're _dreadful_ for chatter." She walked over to her vanity, which was already overflowing with flowers, like a celestial garden. Conspicuous among the many bouquets was a sight that chilled Raian to the bone; it was serenely perfect in detail, from the long unbroken stem to the soft curve of the petals to the black ribbon carefully tied about it…

"Raian…" Jaqueline's voice brought him back and he turned to look at her. "You all right?" she asked timidly.

He shook his head. "I'm fine. No, it's just…" Raian sighed. No use pretending. "He wants to see you, Jaq," he said at last.

She turned slowly, absently toying with one of her long curls by her shoulder as she looked over at him. "Who?"

"You may need to sit down," he said roughly, dragging over a chair. Jaq stared at him a moment as she sat, calmly folding her hands in her lap as if to hide their trembling. Raian paced in front of her for a moment, running a hand through his short dark hair. At length he stopped. "The Opera Ghost."

Jaqueline blinked. "Who?"

Raian spun to stare at her. "The bloody _Phantom of the Opera,_ that's who."

She leaned back and laughed. "Oh, Raian, you have a way of making me laugh—" she trailed off in consternation when the worry did not leave his face. "You're dead serious, aren't you," she said. "God, you're _serious._"

He nodded shortly. "It's the kind of thing you can't say right, but… he's why I'm alive, Jaq. That night I should have been killed. All these recent weeks… to tell the truth, I should be dead." He hesitated. "I don't even know why he came."

"I always thought he was a fable. Something the chorus girls and ballet rats made out of shadows to prattle about."

"Oh, he is very much alive," Raian said. "Well, he expects you, and he does not seem one to be kept waiting." A touch to the mechanism and the mirror soundlessly slid open. He hesitated by the entrance, holding out a hand. "Well," he said, "into the labyrinth…"

_A/N: did you catch the "point of no return" reference? "No use resisting"… and 'into the labyrinth' I have to admit is the title of a lovely book by Weis and Hickman._


	13. Whose is that Voice

_A/N: they meet at last. I suppose this is the "preliminary climax"… from here, expect action, action, plot, action… I hope you know Jaq, Raian, Gerard, and my version of dear Erik well enough that it is believable._

_I own this not, or those last few chapters when I forgot that key phrase _

_Warning: long chapter!_

XIII: WHOSE IS THAT VOICE?

"We are born alone, and we die alone. In between we may be touched by love, but we are still alone." –Tae (Gemmel)

"Madness need not be all breakdown. It may also be breakthrough. It is potentially liberation…" –Laing

The torch flared in the darkness, casting fleeting shadows that seemed to come alive with grasping hands, reaching hungrily from the darkness. Raian's grip on the torch tightened and he held it higher, illuminating the path at their feet. "This way," Raian said, reaching out to take Jaq's hand. "Stay close to me," he warned. "The way is riddled with traps and pitfalls to ward off the unwary."

As they progressed deeper into the labyrinth the sounds of the post-opera celebration began to grow muffled, then faded entirely into silence. The flare of the torch and step of their footsteps sounded unnaturally loud. "What is he like, the Opera Ghost?" Jaqueline asked at length.

Raian hesitated, counting steps down the staircase, leaping lightly over the trick step and helping his sister after him. "Quiet, I suppose. For like h is used to solitude. A dark, cold Master… at least, so is the façade. But there is a full raging fire there, barely hidden. A vast surging current that hides dozen of corpses of the past."

"You paint a frightening picture."

"Aye, for he is a frightening man. 'Man' itself hardly seems a fitting appellation. But his voice… I have never heard such sorrow, triumph, wrath, boundless pity, pitiless rage… power to move mountains delivered in a whispered breath. Once I head him sing. It was like swords that strike the heart, and from the mortal wounds flow wonder and joy and awe to blend as one with fear, and I knew not the difference."

There was a heavy silence. "I have never heard you speak with such passion, Raian."

"Whatever you think you know of passion, forget; when you hear him you will realize how empty your thought of it is. You know not grace, silence, power, fire, ice, fear…"

Jaqueline rubbed her arms, unsure if the tingle was Raian's voice or the growing cold. "What does he look like?" Talking, even of this creature of night, was better than blank silence.

"Remember in Father's library, the Greek mythologies? How we used to imagine them, or look at Father's drawings, compare them to the Romans and the Norse? Think Odin, with a touch of Father's Prometheus, a siren's tongue, and the dark of Hades." She had nothing to say at Raian's description. Part of her still squirmed with the supposition that this was some scheme of Raian's. The rest of her screamed with dreadful longing.

They wound on, at last descending a short, broad flight of stairs that ended in the still edge of a lake, swirling mist hovering above it, never quite daring to touch. On the lake there was a boat, and in the boat…

"Jaqueline. May I present… the Phantom of the Opera."

"Honored, monsieur," she said, dipping into a curtsy. His twin green eyes lanced into her. She fumbled for words to describe that gaze, and grasped only empty air

"The honor is mine," he said quietly, extending a hand. She took it slowly, shivering at the sheer power in his voice, somehow tamed into a gently courteous tone. As if in a dream she stepped into the boat after him; his touch was strangely cold on her, colder even than the dungeon-air. "Here," he said, and in one deft motion unclasped his long dark cloak and draped it over her shoulders. She clutched the fine dark material to her, feeling the soft weave of it under her fingers, close and warm.

A moment later Raian settled in front of her and a single gentle heave from the pole in the Phantom's hands sent them along. She watched in awe a moment at his powerful build as he propelled them, at how the candlelight played along his face, gleamed eerily off the white half-mask that he wore. The Phantom. The Opera Ghost.

Christine's Angel of Music.

At length the silent journey concluded, the boat nudging up against the shore. The Phantom stepped out, wordlessly offering her a supporting hand.

_She is so much like Christine._ The words were bitter and full of longing. She looked up at him, awe lighting in her eyes. Yes, her eyes, the one feature that differed. They were a light gray, clear and trusting, a variation on Raian's darker shade.

Still the similarities were striking, so much so that for a moment he forgot—forgot that _she_ had betrayed him, taken the gift of his song and repaid him with denial… Jaq flinched back as hate glittered in those eyes, a hate made all the more potent that it sprang from love.

"We are never so defenseless against suffering as when we love…" –Freud

"Jaqueline." Just the way he said her name sent shivers through her… pleasure, or terror? She could not tell. "Will you sing with me?"

"Gladly." The word was out before she realized it, and she was rewarded wit hone of the rarest smiles on Earth. Half Phantom, half man.

In all her life, Jaqueline had never had an experience to match that night in the Phantom's lair. At the time her mind was unable to comprehend it; so lost it was in the glory of the song, that rational thought fled to nether worlds of consciousness, leaving vague emotion. It was as if she had abandoned thought entirely, opened her mind to a world of fantasy, empowered by a voice she could not fight and could not find the desire to resist.

Later, when thought returned, she would find it equally as impossible to qualify the experience of that night, realizing that—like a dream—it was too close to her own soul to be brought to light, lest the dark of pain of it sear her until understanding fled. Like a dream it haunted the edges of her mind, elusive and taunting; yet at the same time it seemed more immediate than reality itself. After all, the Phantom of the Opera was, in a way, the greatest dream ever told…

Then somewhere the vision ceased, the timeless duet faded, the organ music faltered, and sleep descended in dreary waves, until she was left to dreams alone.

Raian watched with a sort of detached wonder as the Phantom carefully and gently lay Jaqueline to rest, long fingers flicking deftly to smooth the quilt over her. He stood, swinging his reappropriated cloak over his own shoulders, looking down on her sleeping form pensively. Raian stirred. Was it kindness, or subdued passion, in those eyes?

Their eyes met, gray and green, and Raian looked away. With the faintest scrape of leather on stone the Phantom ascended the steps to the organ again. Raian closed his eyes to the delicate dance of agile fingers over willing keys, the melodies of night filling his mind.


	14. I Remember

_A/N: The quotes I am finding amaze me more and more with how strikingly true they are! My continuing love for Erik's story amazes me as well. I think it is because it satisfies both sides of me simultaneously; the intellectual side, which glories in Erik's genius, and the darker Romantic side (as in, the Romantic Era, before we ized the word to mean anything to do with love) which takes its joy from the aloneness and the alienation._

_I own this not, except for some half-forgotten corridor of my mind, where the Phantom forever lives, the details of this world put aside. I think we all have such a place. You're here, aren't you?_

XIV: I REMEMBER

"Love is the child of freedom, never that of domination." –Erich Fromm (another by him, really the name is a coincidence)

"Some people invite awe whether they like it or not. Such people come to be very lonely. Lonely in themselves…" –Heboric (Erikson… yikes, another one)

When Jaq awoke, it took her a long moment to reconcile with her surroundings. The air against her face was cool, but the light was dim and fitful, a low flow on the edge of sight. Candles.

Slowly it all came back to her, and she sat up. There was some kind of fine dark curtain between her and the rest of this place. She stood, pushing it aside. "Raian?" she asked tentatively, seeing him standing in the clear space.

He turned at the sound of his name with a smile. "You're awake! It's early yet."

"Where is he?"

Raian didn't need more clarification. He shrugged slightly. "Out. I don't presume to know much about him or keep him to a schedule."

"I suppose not," she said, keeping the disappointment from her voice as she left the curtain.

"Hungry?" Raian said, offering her some fruit.

"Very," she replied with a smile, sitting down as she ate.

Raian sat opposite, leaning his elbows on the table. "So," he teased lightly, "how do you find him?"

Jaq took a bite of a pear and paused to think. "Intriguing."

Her brother laughed. "Go on."

She sighed, reluctantly setting the pear down. "Frankly, Raian, I can't claim to understand him. There's such… duality… in him. Fierce and compassionate both. Love and hate, sorrow and anger, pain and expressionless numbness. Dark and light in one. His voice is so powerful, enchanting… words fail utterly! When he sings there is a distant formality to him, but an intense passion as well. Its as if he is so desperately torn, between what I cannot imagine. And alone… eternally alone. Raian," she found she could not stop, "Raian, I think I love him."

"Think?" he said softly, but any hint of doubt in his tone was hidden by resignation. He had known, since she had first seen him… "There is no thought in love. It is, or it is not."

"Then it is, Raian."

"And yet you yourself admit you do not know him!"

"Do I need to? 'Only the heart knows how to find what is precious.' I know, Raian, and what's more you know as well."

"I know it is a shadow and a thought that you love, Jaq. I know I cannot trust him. I know we are caught in his 'mercy' with Gerard blocking the only way out. I know the escapes are fast sliding away. And, Jaq…" he hesitated.

"Are you sure this is love, and not enchantment?" he finished gently.

She laughed, a pure innocent sound that wrenched his heart. "I feel as if this is all a dream, a celestial vision, dear brother. Reality and enchantment court each other, and in the candle-spangled darkness music seizes my soul, whispers sweet nothings in my ear, and leads me to where my furthest fantasies take hold. Love… enchantment… are they not one and the same?"

"Besides, I cannot forget him now." She smiled sweetly at that. "I finally understand the words: _he'll always be there singing songs in my head, he'll always be there singing songs in my head._ Heaven is not so quickly forgotten."

"I remember," Raian said softly.


	15. Who is this Strange Angel

_A/N: This is, I think, the point of divergence, where this ff differs from most—if not all—the others that I have read. I am tempted to do a Shakespeare and call this "The Tragedy of Erik, the Phantom of the Opera", but it's titled already. Just be warned._

_I own this not, as always. Erik is a person, and slavery isn't good. No matter how much I love him, it's for the very nature of his self that is unchained, free and dark as nightmares._

_Bit of a warning; this is a very long chapter (more like 2 or maybe 3 combined) simply because I couldn't find a break. You'll note I only gave you 7 this week, as compared to eight… because I need to breathe after this last one. I hope you enjoy as 'the Phantom' becomes Erik. The quotes are particularly relevant…_

_The song at the end is only thought (not sung) but the words are from Pink Floyd's "wish you were here". The other little thought about fire and ice is from Robert Frost's poem of the same title._

XV: WHO IS THIS STRANGE ANGEL?

"Genius can do much, but even genius falls short of the actuality of a single human life." –Hamilton Wright Mable

"I cling to my imperfection as the very essence of my being." –Anatule France

The solidarity of it had confirmed itself in Gerard's mind. His younger brother and the 'mysterious phantom' were one and the same. Raian was the Opera Ghost.

_Clever, brother, but not clever enough._ Jaqueline's disappearance the night before only confirmed his suspicions. Somehow Raian had spirited her away… but she would be back. To do elsewise was for Raian to blow his cover.

But his younger brother would return… and when he did, Gerard would be waiting for him.

He had lost himself in the music for a long, long time.

It was almost strange to find it bound his soul just as securely now as it had always done. In the months since Christine abandoned him, it had been lost to him—or perhaps, he mused, had he been lost to it? In either case they met again, and the reunion had been glorious indeed.

He permitted himself a smile at the thought—a true smile, not the dark bitter twist he had sported of late. Music demanded, and she was not a forgiving goddess. But he had learned that long ago.

It had taken _her_ to remind him. The girl, the one who looked so much like Christine.

And, like Christine, in the end she would betray him. Perhaps it was _agape_, this time, and not _eros_, but the route was the same. Love outshone pity.

For if she did not hate him, she _would_ pity him.

"I am who I am, girl." Yes, but did she see him? No. She saw the Ghost, the Phantom, the Angel.

Like Christine.

Yes, they were so alike. But he would not be betrayed twice!

She rose when he appeared, striding out of the dark recessed corridors of his lair, his cape billowing around him. Despite all his thoughts, a strange feeling ran through him at the sight of her, dark curls falling about her face, glowing in the candlelight. For a long moment he simply stood there. _Christine._

_No, not she._

At that thought he started moving again, walking forward. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in a stray mirror but his eyes unconsciously slid over the image without seeing, as they always did.

His eyes found hers again, inevitably, and some raw long-buried part of him stirred, uncoiling. Rage? Pity? Love? It was a ceaseless rumbling murmur in his mind, insecure and indefinable.

Somehow the distance between them closed, and she was only a breath away, a slight but certain presence against his greater darkness. Every detail stood out clearly in his mind, every nuance of expression as she tilted her head back and looked up at him, searching his unfathomable eyes.

He was unaware of his quickly indrawn breath; some deep and harshly buried aspect of his mind… _hummed_… with her proximity. He could not deny his love for Christine though the revelation burned with the fires of her betrayal. She was so alike. So alike.

Then her hand came up, tentatively, and fiery warning seared through every vein in him, burning with incandescent fire. Faster almost than thought he tensed, his gloved fingers catching her wrist halfway to his face.

She did not resist, only looked up at him. "Trust me." Her words were softly imploring, entreating some part of him he thought destroyed the night Christine had left him.

_Touch me, trust me,_ his own words came back, taunting, haunting his memories.

Trust me. _Why do you always have to know? Christine, Christine, why…?_

Slowly, despairingly, he commanded his fingers to open, his hand to fall away. Reluctantly it obeyed.

Jaqueline's hand completed its journey to his face, running her long fingers in wonder over the hard, implacable planes of the mask. Unbidden his eyes closed. Through his life he had seen it again and again; the determination that snapped into shock, the shock supplanted be horror…

Her fingers were warm against the cold mask, delicate as they touched it. After a long moment he realized she desired only that: to touch the silent half of him, the half that remained completely and utterly alone. A strange permutation of feeling, akin to relief but not the same, swept through him. Was joy a part of it? Fear? Wonder?

Something rose out of that human half, and with a strange ferocity seized his mind.

He had thought Jaqueline and Christine alike, and surprised to find the difference. Now he bitterly realized there was no difference at all. One saw the monster, the other the mask. Neither the man.

_Neither the man. Fate plays a fool against man's desires._

Unaware of his thoughts, Jaqueline looked up at him. "I love you."

He stepped back suddenly from her, breaking contact, too quickly for her to react. "Love me?" He said the word as if it were alien to him. "Love me? Not I. The shadow I represent, perhaps, a girl's dream of awe." He turned to look directly at the betraying mirror that had caught his reflection before. "Just like Christine," he said, forcing his tone into a mocking edge. "So innocent, so trusting. Pathetic."

"Phantom—"

Her voice cut short when he wheeled to face her. "Phantom," he spat mockingly, hands curling into fists, his whole body shaking with barely subdued anger. It was there in the hard lines, the taut muscles, the barely suppressed tension an instant from exploding. "You are more like her than I thought," he continued, eyes raking her in a way that caused her to step back. "Phantom. Angel. Inhuman adjectives for this _creature_ you see before you. The irony of this mask does not escape me, girl. After all these years, every revelation laid like a coal against the skin."

A slow step forward, and a hasty step back.

The anger grew, dammed up by a hidden reserve—a powerful wall that slowly buckled under the mounting pressure, bare breaths from giving way. "So very easy to see only this mask, this material scrap, a pitiful shield against the world. Cold. Emotionless. _Inhuman._" His teeth bared, he exulted in the sheer _power_ of the surge of his anger. "Or… to strip it away, lay the world bare to the deformity behind!"

Jaqueline's back hit the wall. He towered over her. "What do you see, little girl?" he taunted. "The specter or the beast?" He leaned down in cold, calculating rage, until their faces were inches apart. Fires burned in his eyes, a madness she could neither quantify nor define. She could not look away.

"I… I don't know…"

He roared in anger, both hands seizing her, lifting her and pinning her back helpless against the wall. Choking for breath a new fear lit in Jaqueline's mind. This dark apparition that held her prisoner could threaten with one nightmare beyond even Gerard… the Phantom's close proximity to her made it all the more frightening. She could feel him, pressed up against her; she could trace the alien beauty in his eyes…

_God, no! I am not Christine!_

A quiet voice said, "She can't breathe, sir. Phantom, Ghost, whoever you are, please…" Raian.

In purposeful disobedience the Phantom stared directly into her eyes, a penetrating gaze that swept all the way down into her soul and numbed it with cold fire.

He let her go, but did not move away. The tableau stretched for a long moment. "Phantom… please…" she echoed, venturing to break the silence.

"Am I _phantom_ and not _man_?" his voice was dangerously quiet. His fingers closed painfully over her shoulders as he turned, abruptly shoving her back, and she stumbled to the floor. Raian took two steps forward and froze when the Phantom's eyes locked onto him. Fire, and power, and madness.

"_I have a name!"_

The cavern caught the echoes and spat them back—lightning unleashed from captive clouds, until the sound drove Raian to his knees, an arm futilely shielding his face from the palpable waves of anger.

"…I have a name…" The last echo was a human voice, so soft it was almost lost in the ringing silence. Raian dared to look up, and what he saw chilled his soul like winter's heart.

A man. Behind the mask and mirrors, a tortured soul caught in a twisted cage, whose walls were pride and gates fear.

_So, so you think you can tell_

_Heaven from Hell_

_Blue skies from pain_

_Can you tell a green field_

_From a cold steel rail_

_A smile from a veil_

_So you think you can tell._

Tear down the walls, open the gates, and die.

_Did they get you to change_

_Your heroes for ghosts_

_Hot ashes for trees_

_Hot air for a cool breeze_

_Cold comfort for change_

_And did you exchange_

_A walk-on part in a war_

_For lead role in a cage?_

"Your name…" the words were the dry whispering of parchment.

His head snapped up, his shoulders heaving with every breath. Rage rolled off him in waves. No mere anger this. He was two steps away from a killing frenzy. "Erik. That is what she called me. Erik…"

"Erik…" the word sounded strange as Jaqueline said it. "please…" the sound of his name on her lips tore his soul.

"You must return," he interrupted. There was ice in his voice, all the ice of the world, enough to freeze Hell over. But it would not be enough. _Some say the world will end in fire, others say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire, I hold with those who favor fire…_"They will be missing you. You have no place here. Consider it as if it had never occurred." He looked up. Fire claimed more of him. "Both of you. Raian, take her and go."

He had the music, and that would be enough.

Fire and light and death.


	16. Tremors

XVI: Tremors

"_In every man of genius a strange new force is brought into the world." –Havelock Ellis_

"_The prohibition against solitude is forever… it is not easy to be solitary unless you are also born ruthless." –Jessamyn West_

"_A man who lives by himself and for himself is apt to be corrupted by the company he keeps." –Charles Parkhurst_

Erik took a long last moment to stare into the betraying mirror.

It was actually quite astounding, he decided, how a pane of glass could reflect back the totality of a human soul, beyond and above—or was it below?—the physical appearance. The innate , the cold cynicism, all of it. He pulled the concealing drape back over the mirror with a certain vindictive pleasure.

_One thing only I know._ Erik could not help smiling at the thought, a genuine smile. _Beauty is truth, and truth beauty; that is all he know on earth, and all ye need to know._ Keats, "Ode to a Grecian Urn".

Ode to life, more like. Music was the only source of beauty in life, an imperfect mirror that distorted abnormalities until they became perfections, and the human mind stood unblemished. The ultimate mirror of the soul.

And Erik was alone again. His slow smile faded as he resumed his seat at the organ. What glory in loneliness—forever, with death in the hand and in Death's hands.

The labyrinthine corridors seemed dark, cold, and empty as Raian and Jaqueline ran up from the bowels of the Opera House, giving little thought to where they went, minds filled with the specter of the dark shadow that had cast them violently away.

At length their steps slowed as fearful energy fled, and tiredness crept in, wearing muscles and betraying fear with leaden weights, until midway up a curving flight of stairs they slowed, gasping for breath, muscles burning. "Lord," Jaqueline managed to gasp.

Raian tried to steady his breathing. "Just be thankful we're not dead," he said, forcing himself the rest of the way up the stairs and choosing the appropriate corridor. "Though why he let us leave—we know of him—"

"Yes, but who would we tell? And why, after he saved you, spared you?" Jaq pointed out.

"True. But the question is, what now? Times of leaving have been forced in on us prematurely. I have no plan, no idea… I can't stay, that much is obvious. I have to find a way out."

"You will. Don't worry," Jaq said with forced confidence, following him through the trick mirror back into her dressing room. "Before long you'll find a way to…"

"To what, leave?" said a new voice. Gerard casually stood from his position by the other door and walked to the mirror, idly sliding it closed with an interested glance. He turned, his back to the mirror, pinning them still with a raving, knowing gaze. "Looks like the game is up," he continued, obviously enjoying their stunned silence. "I thought your decision to sing was rather abrupt, Jaq. Only Father could get you to sing… and our dear brother." He leered at Raian. "Why, what a surprise, little brother! I distinctly remember sending men to dispose of you. Pity. Before I forget, no thanks for making this more difficult than it might have been." His voice hissed with anger at those last words, and he took a menacing step forward.

"It was quite clever, really, hiding out here; I'm pleasantly surprised at his 'passage' you found. And becoming the Opera Ghost! I must say, the ballet rats are quite taken with the idea, though the screams and giggles have rather gotten on my nerves. Still, the thought of a haunted opera certainly has its… shall we say… audience draw?"

Slowly what Gerard was saying filtered into Raian's mind. _He doesn't know. He doesn't know._

"At any rate, dear brother, I'm afraid the joke is wearing thing." Gerard smiled cruelly, running a hand casually through his hair. Slowly the numbness faded from Raian and his eyes darted. That chair… it would slow his brother for a few seconds, enough time to grab Jaq and run. "…I hate to cut the fun short," Gerard was saying. Raian hurled himself forward.

The point of the rapier grated off the wall, skittering slightly on the stone, raising sparks. With a savage smile Gerard jerked the narrow blade free… a blade narrow enough to slip between the ribs and find the heard. He paused to examine the tip of the red-smeared metal for a nick from the stone, pausing to wipe it clean on Raian's shirt.

The younger brother did not protest, merely lay where he had fallen, sprawled on the floor, the fine carpets turning red and wet beneath him. Jaqueline heard a high sound and realized she was screaming. She knew it was irrational, pointless, but even so she couldn't stop. Even when Gerard seized her shoulders and shook her, the high keening wail went on. He shoved her back, and with a cry she stumbled.

Gerard hauled her to her feet. _"Silence!"_ Somehow she managed to close her trembling jaw, choking off her wail. "You'll have no singing voice left, dear sister," Gerard said malevolently, shoving her towards the door. "That would anger me. You don't want me angry, do you?" She shook her head, still trembling. The door slammed shut behind her.

From behind the mirror, Erik leaned against the wall. "Your last mistake, Raian," he said to the motionless corpse. "You cannot trust the goodness of humanity. There is none. They are more like animals than they admit." Erik actually laughed, quietly, at that. "I have always imagined myself as a mathematician. It is a form of art—intricate patterns, each begging to be manipulated into the perfect form. There is a story, you know, about a farmer, a businessman, and a mathematician, each charged to build a fence around a flock of sheep."

He trailed his fingers against the glass surface of the one-way mirror, mind far away in remembrance. "The businessman built a square pen—it was the cheapest, offering the greatest internal area for the last perimeter of fence. The farmer simply herded the sheep together and built the pen around them. But the mathematician—the genius of it! He built the fence around himself, and defined where he was as _outside_, and the rest of the world as _inside_."

"Once I thought this opera house and its internal darkness a cage. I was a fool then—like the mathematician, I see differently now, Raian. _This_, young man, is _outside_. The rest of the world looks in and thinks me an animal, but it is _they_ who are the animals, trapped inside. And yet it seems my manager is bent on opening the floodgates." Erik tapped the lever, and the mirror slid aside. "That, of course, won't do."

He walked past Raian's body without a second glance.

_A/N: the anecdote about the three builders originally took the form of a scientist, an engineer, and a mathematician… it's a family tale, I have no idea where it came from originally._


	17. Watch it Burn

XVII: Watch it Burn

"_Man can do nothing until he has first understood that he must count on no one but himself; that he is alone, abandoned on earth…" –Jean Paul Sartre_

"_Who promised love should be happiness? Nature may have some other end." –Mark Rutherford_

"Monsieur Gerard. I would advise you to be… gentler… with my property."

The voice came from everywhere at once and nowhere in particular, at the same time. Disconcerted for a moment in the partially shadowed hallway, the manager's grip loosed a fraction. Immediately Jaq tore violently away from him, running down the corridor. Gerard cursed and made after her as she darted away,

Jaq kept her gray eyes fixed on the floor, watching where she was going. Unfortunately the long climb from the Phantom's lair had been tiring, and her body refused to respond as she wanted it to. She could hear Gerard's heavy footfalls gaining on her—she wheeled full-speed around a corner and stopped abruptly. A pair of cold, black-gloved hands effectively halted her mid-flight. Automatically her mouth opened to scream, but the grip shifted to muffle the sound.

"What, so sudden a change in temperament?" an amused mellifluous voice said in her ear. A very powerful, very familiar voice. She never felt more afraid—but the steady pressure on her mouth unequivocally informed her that would be a bad idea at this particular moment.

Strong arms pulled her back around the corner, where she saw, with frightened eyes, Gerard charging closer. Something cold—_metal_—touched a line along her throat. "Caution, caution, good monsieur," Erik said in a cold distinctive voice. Gerard slowed, then stopped entirely. "Better," the voice murmured; she could feel the vibration through his chest where it was pressed up against her back.

"Ah, monsieur, we meet at last," Erik purred with deceptive quiet. "Allow me to introduce myself."

"The Opera Ghost." For some reason there was confusion on Gerard's face, quickly replaced by fear.

Erik managed a graceful inclination of his head without shifting his grip on her. "Yours truly—the Phantom of the Opera."

"But—you're dead!"

"A common misconception," Erik said dryly. "Someone is forever declaring me dead before the fact. As you can see, I am very much alive."

"Not for long," Gerard snarled, anger and pride overcoming common sense, his rapier rasping free of its sheath with a deliberately menacing tone as he stepped forward. He let anger supplant confusion… he had thought that Raian…

"Careful, monsieur, in your steps," Erik said, his voice taking on a deadly calculating edge. "You risk more than you guess." The line of cold, the edge of a blade, pressed against Jaq's neck, lifting her chin.

Erik stared down into her gray eyes wide with fear. "Innocence is such a pretty thing," he said with mock pity, a smile playing about his mouth. A cold, heartless smile that would have made Jaqueline tremble, had the sword not been so close to drawing blood. AS she stared up at him she was surprised to see something foreign to his tone flash through his eyes.

Apparently Gerard noted it as well. A cruel smile crossed his face. "You would not harm her," he said derisively, courage returning, as he walked forward again. "You are far too attached to her. Or, perhaps, someone she reminds you of…?"

Erik's head snapped up, and Gerard dared to laugh. That harsh voice cut off abruptly however when that commanding tone interjected like steel rimmed in ice, "An extravagance of laughter, monsieur, hides trembling." Whatever had for a moment graced those expressive eyes was gone. The anger and gate, sorrow and madness, passion; all of it had fled.

The eyes were empty, and for the first time Jaq rationalized the term he had so often been given, a face like a death's head.

Gerard roared in anger, lunging forward futilely as the Phantom's sword came across, a single smooth motion. For he was "the Phantom" now, the man called Erik buried somewhere within. She was not Christine.

No, she was dead.

With the clang of steel on steel and a shower of sparks, the two swords met and locked at the hilt. Gerard gave a powerful forward surge. Erik fell back, nimbly sidestepping. To his credit Gerard spun on cue, sword coming up in just enough time to deflect a vicious side-swipe. He carefully stepped forward, rapier flashing in a series of test moves. He tried the left, failed; flicked high and right to no avail. The defense was flawless. He shifted positions rapidly, testing this "Phantom" in his responses. Lightning-quick. He circled, watching peripherally as Erik's feet shifted precisely into well-known patterns. The Phantom was not only strong, he also had the advantage of reach over Gerard… and from the way his blade flickered through the air, Erik was a master swordsman.

_As am I._ He had one chance—there was a knife nestled in his left boot, if he could bring it into play.

Abruptly he found his chance, as one of the Phantom's slashes hesitated an instant too far to the right. Gerard threw himself forward, a vicious sweep and a twist trapping Erik's blade against the wall. Suddenly Gerard was face-to-face with the cold inhuman mask, both weapons incapacitated. His left hand snatched down for the hilt of the dagger… his fingers brushed it…

Something tightened about his neck, choking off air; instinctively his hands rose to clutch futilely at the constricting Punjab Lasso. "You… cheated…" he gasped.

The harmonious voice whispered in his ear, "Good sir, has no one told you? I am the Phantom of the Opera. Since when do I fight fairly?" As his sight dimmed, the last thing Gerard saw was the white half-mask, gleaming eerily in the fading light.

Hours later, when the bodies were discovered, a badly frightened and nervous scene-shifter would hand the note to a shaken Anton…

_Monsieur,_

_Congratulations on your promotion to manager of my opera house. I suggest you begin auditions, as a new lead soprano is needed. Unfortunately, I'm afraid tonight's performance must be cancelled until such a time._

_As ever, your humble servant,_

_O.G._

_PS—my salary is due. Send it care of Mme Giry, as always._


	18. To This Moment

XVIII: To This Moment

"_I here and now, finally and forever, give up knowing anything about love… I believe it doesn't exist, save as a word: a sort of wailing phoenix that is really the wind in the trees." –Lawrence_

The blood was still red on the blade when Erik set the sword down on the piano, its keen tapered edge half-gleaming through the stains, pure silver against black, still unsheathed. He swept off his long black cloak and draped it over the piano bench, sitting beside it.

For a long moment he merely stared at the keys. He didn't touch them, just looked, lost for a while in silent thought. He had not written since _Don Juan_. A soft _mwerr_ made him look up with the ghost of a smile at the white Persian cat regarding him with golden eyes.

At last his long deft fingers settled over the ebony / ivory keys, first tapping gently, then hammering more forcefully…perfect fourth, minor second twice, whole step, perfect fifth… "Past the Point of No Return" echoed across the lake.

The cat's eyes closed at the familiarity of the vibrations humming up from the fine dark wood beneath it. Even as it listened, though, the chords modulated; the tone darkened and became fuller—true _maestoso_—black and haunting, rippling with overtone series in minor keys… Fma7, Em, Cm…

Abruptly it ceased, and Erik's fingers hesitated. Then, with astonishing delicacy, his fingers closed over the pen. With five swift strokes he dashed off a staff, curled the cleff, and blotted a single note. A note which grew into a chord, and the chord into a song…

FIN


End file.
